


The Scars Open Wide

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Whumptober 2019 [15]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Whumptober Day 15: Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 23:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Time doesn't heal everything. But Noctis is fine, honest.





	The Scars Open Wide

The mess on his back isn’t pretty to look at, certainly not by medical standards. Between the Marilith venom eating through what it did, and the actual damage caused by the claws proper, it’s a miracle he has as much skin left in that area as he does, and that it’s healed as well as it has. Still, when people talk about scars and their unique beauty as a mark of a survivor, Noctis doubts the knotted, lumpy mass on his back is what they mean. 

Honestly, Noctis wouldn’t even count it as a genuine scar, given how much pain it causes him even now. Some days, the wounds feel utterly fresh, and he would swear he was still bleeding out, dripping venom on the ground as he walks.

“Breathe in,” Doctor Xelnar orders, one hand over Noctis’ shoulder, stethoscope pressed over his chest to listen. It’s another monthly session to test some remedy or another in the vague hopes that this one will finally be the cure to stop the debilitating pain the scar causes him even now. Normally Noctis doesn’t mind the sessions, but he’s been in pain since late last night, and his sleep wasn’t deep or restful. He could ask for sleeping medication, the hard kind that knocks him out for five or six hours, but he doesn’t want to spend those hours trapped in a never-ending series of nightmares, unable to wake up at all. 

“Your lungs sound good. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Hurts.”

“Mm, caught you during a bad one. I’m sorry.”

Noctis loves Doctor Xelnar, but he wishes the man would stop apologizing. “If you could change something, I imagine you would.”

“I’d change a lot of things, if I carried that power. As it is, we  _ were  _ going to start the injections today, but I think given how inflamed it’s looking right now, we’d be better off waiting another day. For now, I’ll prescribe you the usual suspects, and you can have them picked up whenever you’re ready.” 

He hands Noctis his shirt, and goes to write the prescription down. Noctis can feel every pulse of his heart through the damned scar, angry as it is, and he waits for the always-lurking nausea in his stomach to finally settle before even thinking of trying to lift his arms and get his shirt on. 

Times like this, he wonders if it wouldn’t be worth it to just go back home shirtless like Gladio. He can claim it was a dare, and Gladio would probably back him up on it. Then again, he’s not dealing with stupid people at the Citadel - they’d take one look at him and realize he’s probably in agony, and keep their mouths shut. 

Gods, he can already feel the pity, and he isn’t even out of the medical ward yet. 

Behind him, the doors creak open. He knows he should probably throw the shirt back on now, but the pain eats at him, and he can’t. So when he hears the soft intake of breath from someone doubtlessly catching sight of the mess, all he can do is grit his teeth and try to will the pain away a little quicker. He doesn’t expect the sound of boots to come up on him rapid-quick, or feel the heat of a hand hovering over the nape of his neck. “Little Prince?”

“Nngh?” He cracks open an eye, and finds Nyx Ulric staring down at him with something like concern. “Hey hero. Long time no--ngnn-- see.”

“Shit, how long have you been sitting here? You’ve been seen, right?” There’s a flare to his nostrils coming on and a grit to his jaw that tells Noctis if he  _ hasn’t  _ already been seen, Nyx will bring the whole fucking medical ward running, and make them regret making him wait so long. 

“Easy big guy. I’ve been seen already. Doc’s writing me a prescription as we speak. M’just waiting for the pain to stop so I can get my shirt back on, so I don’t look like an idiot walking down the halls.”

Nevermind the part about him not needing his wound being seen by all and sundry. The press would have a field day with the image of the almost-hole in his back.  _ Prince bears disgusting wounds, more at 11.  _

“Yeah no, fuck that. You’re in pain. Grab your prescription when it comes out, we’re getting you home.”

“You’re waiting to be seen, aren’t you?” Noctis asks, trying to stave off what he knows is inevitable. Once Nyx has it in his head to take care of someone, that’s it. And Noctis has been on the man’s radar since day one of warp training. “It’s fine, I’ll just sit and wait--”

“Like hell. All I came in for was an allergy shot, and I can always come back for that. You, on the other hand, need bed rest. Now.”

And as if the universe is in agreement, Doctor Xelnar returns, a piece of paper between his fingers. “Here you go young man. Ah, Ulric, what can I help you with?”

“Allergy shot, but first I’m gonna get Noctis home.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be in the office the rest of the evening, so feel free to pop by once you’re done and we’ll get you situated. Take it easy, Your Highness.”

_ Easy for you to say,  _ Noctis thinks bitterly. He tries not to think like that if he can help it, but he’s well over threshold for pain, or at the very least rapidly approaching threshold. He doesn’t want to hit it, not here, not out in public with people who would be  _ mortified  _ to hear the Crown Prince make such disgustingly weak sounds and beg for a bullet between the eyes. Bad enough that Nyx is already fussing over him like he’s some kind of goddamn milk maid.

“Right, c’mon,” Nyx says, and then puts himself in front of Noctis and crouches down, holding his hands out. “Let’s get you home, little star.”

“M’not-- _ nngggh.”  _ His words die in his throat as another lance of pain ripples through him like the tide, and he resigns himself to biting back every little noise he makes. Even the  _ thought  _ of putting legs on the floor makes his stomach threaten revolt, but he has to at least let Nyx get a grip on him. 

“Fall forward, Noctis,” Nyx orders, glancing back at him. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Worst trust exercise ever,” he grumbles, but lets himself lean forward, and then gravity take over. He expects to smack into Ulric hard enough to leave him screaming, but instead Nyx catches him right before impact, and deftly loops himself under Noctis’ arm, swinging Noctis up and around in a fireman’s carry, leaving Noctis’ throbbing hip supported by a padded shoulder, the pain caused to his back minimal at best. “ _ Fuck.” _

“You alright back there?” Nyx asks, and Noctis would probably hate the position if it weren’t for the fact that the pain has dialed back to more manageable levels. He still hurts, but he’s no longer in the immediate red. “If this hurts too much, I can change grips.”

“No, no, this-- this is good. Thank you.” He buries his face in the warm leather of Nyx’s uniform, letting his muscles go lax and trusting that Nyx is strong enough to hold his weight. He probably wouldn’t have offered if he couldn’t.

“No worries. And see, it leaves my hands free to punch the face of anyone who starts shit about you being weak.” He lets go of Noctis’ arm to wiggle a hand at him, and Noctis huffs with amusement despite himself. “I mean it, though. You’re allowed to have a bad day, Little Highness. Much as any of us warriors.”

“But I’m not a warrior, Nyx.” He buries his face in the padding of the uniform as Nyx opens the door to medical and steps out. “I don’t have a real reason to be like this. I should be--”

“Able to overcome anything, right? Especially something that only takes up half your spine and almost caused you to be crippled for life, right? Something that, when it healed over, the doctors working on it called your recovery a ‘bona-fide miracle of the Gods’?”

“Tenebrae helped,” Noctis argues. Luna’s mother had taken time away from her own issues to lend him help when she didn’t have to - even now, he can remember the worried looks his father had tried to conceal after each session, how tired Lady Sylva had been draining the Scourge out of him, long after the venom had run its course. 

“The only thing Tenebrae did was rid you of the disease part of the problem, and even then it wasn’t a complete effort. I’ve read the reports. You could have very easily died, Highness, and instead you chose to fight back, to live. You’re a warrior, even if you don’t think so.” They come up onto the elevator, having thankfully met no one on the way there besides the silently-stationed Crownsguard around the premises. Nyx jabs the button, and together they wait. 

Noctis wants to argue that part about him being a warrior. He’s a fighter, sure, but he wouldn’t call himself a warrior. He’d fought to survive, and even now the memories linger. He remembers the smell of the wounds draining, and the times one of the maids would have to change his bandages, because they’d been soaked through with pus and blood. 

How for months after his return from Tenebrae, that would still be the case. And then for a while it had gotten better - he’d been able to get up and move a little, and he’d felt so  _ free.  _ His wounds had become re-infected a short while after Lady Sylva’s death and their return to Insomnia - due to stress, the doctors had said - and so the steadily-closing wound had been cut back open, the accumulated pus and drainage pushed out, and then they’d fed him a steady, unrelenting diet of broths, light foods, and healing magic until he’d thought he’d die from it, all the while watching him like a hawk. 

Every temperature spike, every set back, every night where Noctis had gone quiet and still and Ignis had stayed by his side, clutching a clammy hand between his own as he breathed prayers to the Gods, was recorded, and later those records wrapped in red tape and sealed away. 

The elevator dings softly as it reaches the assigned floor, and Nyx steps out. Noctis keeps his eyes shut, because the issue is rolling around in his head like a loose tooth, and he’s not done with it. Because yeah, the doctors called his recovery a miracle, said that he must have been blessed by the Gods after months of sudden touch-and-go flares ups following weeks of quiet, peaceful healing where it seemed like the entire thing would just heal up and life would go on. And yeah, he has regular days - hell, even weeks - where the pain goes beyond bone-deep, goes beyond agonizing, where Ignis or Gladio comes in to find him crying silently into the bed, and he has to be transported to medical and put under until the flare-up finally goes away. Entire weeks where school, hanging out, even moving is little more than a pipe dream.

And yeah, he has people who take one look at him on his good days, and scoff because  _ he can’t be crippled.  _ Because he’s fine  _ on that day,  _ which means it must all be a giant joke, he’s not  _ actually  _ handicapped in any capacity. And yet those people never see him on the days when he’s writhing in bed, gasping and crying because he’s in too much agony to think straight. 

He’s not a warrior. He’s just an unlucky kid out in a world that doesn’t care, doing his best to get by and not be a complete failure for the people around him. That’s all.

“Noctis?”

Speaking of which. Noctis raises his head, and meets his father’s concerned gaze. His father, who currently looks like he’s just coming out of a session with several of his council, Clarus included. All eyes are on him, and Noctis kind of wants to just die. 

“M’fine,” he says, and then drops his head back into Nyx’s shoulder. Suddenly, he just wants a nap. Maybe a juice box, if he has any left in the mini-fridge. Or if Nyx is willing to get him one. 

“He’s having a bad day, Majesty. I offered to get him to bed in one piece, so he wouldn’t have to walk.” Nyx doesn’t add that Noctis  _ was  _ planning to walk all the way back to his rooms without any form of assistance, but it seems he doesn’t have to; Clarus gives Noctis his patented  _ I see you’re being an idiot again  _ look, while Regis sighs. 

“Noctis. Why didn’t you ask Gladio or Ignis to accompany you?”

“ _ I’m fine,”  _ Noctis grits out. “You all are acting like this is the first time this has happened.”

“And much like all the other times, you refuse to get yourself help,” Clarus retorts. “This is why we worry, Noctis, but more importantly it is why their positions  _ exist. _ Heaven’s sake, boy.”

Noctis can literally feel his temper surge. He shoves against Nyx, the man cursing as Noctis rolls off his back and onto his own two feet. A bad decision, as the pain returns immediately, but he doesn’t care. 

“For your information,” he snarls, voice loud. “The reason Gladiolus and Ignis aren’t  _ coddling me  _ is because Ignis has an exam coming up that I didn’t want to disturb, and Gladiolus is downstairs in the training rooms trying to perfect throwing his shield at an enemy to  _ impress you,  _ so you’ll stop staring at him like he’s the greatest fucking disappointment of your life. Because I would like to remind you they have  _ lives  _ outside of playing Nanny to the professional fuck-up of the kingdom, so why don’t you shut  _ up,  _ Clarus?”

He shoves past Nyx, past his father, past the now-muttering group of council. He’s aware that come tomorrow his leg and spine will likely render him useless, but for now he stridently ignores the pain and pushes on back to his rooms using nothing but his temper to fuel him. 

Nyx calls him a warrior, a survivor. Noctis just wishes that were true, because maybe then at least he could take five steps without people demanding where his  _ keepers  _ are. Or casting blame on them for not breathing for Noctis, not thinking for Noctis, not  _ existing  _ for Noctis. He’s so tired of it. Tired of being told that he needs to be  _ careful,  _ that he needs to be wary, tired of being the most protected thing in this gods-damned place while his  _ dad  _ is literally a walking corpse. 

He slams the door shut behind him, but it doesn’t bring any relief. It also doesn’t make the pain stop, or make his tears go away. He bites down on his lip as they bubble over, refusing to let out a single noise over this nonsense. He’s not a warrior, he’s not worth the tears. He needs to take Gladio’s advice, and suck it up, and move on, because tomorrow won’t wait. 

So he hobbles to the bathroom even as it feels like half of him is being bathed in fire, swallows down two high dose pain pills, and puts himself to bed.


End file.
